Those Lonely Nights At Sea
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan AU fic collection: Most would run - and maybe fight to the death - if they heard the fearsome Captain Swan climb aboard their ship. But not Captain Jones. '"You always did like to make an entrance, Swan." "That's Captain Swan."'
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Small AU fic I wrote for Tumblr. Might become a collection of Captain Swan and Captain Jones pieces if my muse agrees._

* * *

If you were to observe him on this day, one of the strange things you might note about Captain Killian Jones is that upon the sound of rapid scrambling, stomping of feet and the metallic scrape of unsheathed swords drifting through the wood and into his cabin, he does nothing.

That is, nothing to stop what is clearly an invasion of his ship from another, most likely another crowd of pirates. Instead, he simply swirls his rum around the tumbler, the ghost of a smirk etched upon his lips.

This mightn't seem to strange – for it should; a captain effectively forfeiting his ship – if you had caught on to the shift of his eyesight to the small window of his cabin where dozens of ships bearing crimson sails and flags with a crest that looks oddly like a swan can be seen gracing the otherwise calm waters.

Why this should make a difference is another matter entirely. If anything, knowing that it's _her _– a fearsome pirate who makes up in fleet size what she lacks in mercy – would make his actions all the more absurd.

And yet, Killian does little to get out of his chair – quite content where he is, in fact – and simply reaches over to the other end of the table to grab another tumbler. He is just screwing back the cap onto the bottle, having poured two fingers of rum into the glass, when he feels more than hears a presence at the doorframe behind him.

His smirk widens as he takes a sip of his drink. "You always did like to make an entrance, Swan."

He doesn't turn around – only hears the quiet steps of leather boots against the rich wooden floor of his cabin – and yet doesn't even flinch when he feels the cold metal of a dagger slide along his throat from behind. She applies the barest of pressure, an action that would reduce others to tears, but with him he only smiles wider.

"That's _Captain _Swan."

Her breath is hot against his ear, blonde hair falling onto his shoulder and he suppresses a groan because _she's wearing it down._

"Of course." He says in a near _purr, _tapping his fingers against the wooded arm of the chair. "Care for a drink, Captain Swan? Or did you invade my ship to actually _take _it?"

Her dagger presses just that little bit harder into his neck – not enough to draw blood, but enough to dent the skin – and once again he feels her voice, smooth and lilting. "What makes you think I won't do just that?"

His chuckle is rich as the memory swims before his vision – clashing swords and barred teeth and soft lips and tangled sheets – and in one swift and practiced movement he twists away from the dagger, turning around to kneel in the chair and in the same graceful manoeuvre he grabs her by the font of her bodice, tugging her forward so her dagger clatters to the ground and their foreheads touch.

"Because I remember what happened when you _did _try." His eyes rake her form and _god _he'd forgotten. Forgotten those _tight _brown leather breeches that she wears, the lace up boots that match, the black bodice and blouse she wears and that _long crimson coat. _He'd forgotten the bandana she wears in the same deep red, the one that wraps round the front of her head with her tresses of long blonde hair falling out of the sides in a windswept chaos of gold. He'd forgotten the feel of her sharp green eyes boring into him.

Her lips hover above his for a second – always the bloody tease – before she pulls out of his grasp, sauntering over to the other chair. "You do, do you?" She says, picking up the rum he poured for her and swirling it about. "Because it _seems _to have slipped my mind."

He narrows his eyes. "Are you suggesting I'm not memorable?"

She's the one chuckling this time, putting her feet up on the table, but then he's there, moving his chair forward slightly to bring her feet down into his lap. Their eyes lock as he undoes the laces with calloused fingers, pulling each boot of in turn. "Because, darling…" He continues "…If you need reminding…it could be arranged."

He works into her bare feet with his thumbs – knowing where the knots would be, knowing the toll charging round a ship can have on one's feet – and he smiles as she groans softly, her eyes slipping shut, her head falling against the back of the chair.

"God, Emma." He murmurs. "Three months is too bloody long."

She brings her glass to lips, humming in something that borders on approval. "Oh – I'm sure you've bed many a bar wrench in my absence."

He raises an eyebrow – a small voice inside his head, his twisted and darkened head, going _as if _– and she cracks open a surprised eye. "No?"

He continues to massage her feet – maintaining this newly found eye contact – thinking deftly back to the many occasions in which he could have, very easily in fact, but in which he didn't, his focus always drifting to long legs and wild hair and those dark moments before dawn. "You?" He counters, his lack of a response serving as the only answer he knows she'll need.

She shrugs, eyes closing again. "Been busy."

He feels the knot in his stomach loosen slightly – pictures of her with other men fading , replaced by other ones, ones of her in fierce duel with a hard, blazing look upon her face, hair flying, eyes sparked with determination, spinning about, skilled footwork –

"I noticed." He says, nodding to the window. "Quite the fleet you have at your command, lass." The impressed tone of his voice makes the corners of her lips tilt up in a smile and – knowing that she's faced with many a compliment from begging victims and appeasing crewmen, and that his is the one that sticks – he smiles too.

"Mm…In fact…" Her smile stretches into a smirk "…if I'm not quite mistaken, yours is one of the few still in these parts that I am yet to conquer."

"I seem to recall me reminding you earlier…" His hand moves from the base of her foot, sliding up to her ankle and edging up the leather, "…that confrontations of that sort, always end in a certain way…" He peers at her from under his eyelashes, running his tongue along his bottom lip, eyes flickering to hers and it's been three months since he's last seen her, kissed her and _god – _

She pulls her legs off his lap and he watches her so intently it's almost comical – lips parted, heart racing – as she plants her feet firmly on the ground, downing the rest of her drink before walking over to him.

He almost can't believe she'd asked if he'd been with anyone else – did she honestly not _know? _Could she honestly not _see? _

The thought slips his mind as she straddles him because all of a sudden her lips are on his and it's been three months – three months waiting like a sap for the pesky pirate captain who holds his heart – and he's forgotten how it feels – how _she _feels – her lips moving against his – grazing, nipping, sucking, tugging – taking the air from his lungs and filling him with the all-consuming and intoxicating being of _her._

His hands slide up to her waist, pulling her closer, and with one last searing press of her lips to his, she pulls away. "I see you haven't changed." She near pants.

"How so?"

She brings her hands up to his neck, raking them though his hair and making him groan as she touches her forehead to his, noses bumping, lips ghosting."Still completely _unable _to handle it."

Catching her off guard – and relishing in her sharp intake of breath – he tightens his grip on her thighs, lifting her up and pushing her over to the large bed on the other side of the quarters. "If I recall correctly…" He moves his lips to her neck "…you couldn't handle it either."

He pushes her coat of her shoulders, chucking it to the floor and she mimics his actions, red and black leathers falling on top of each other, both completely – and possibly intentionally – oblivious to the fact that their crews are hardly _making merry _above deck; too consumed with falling into the bed in a mixture of tangled limbs and entwined hands and three months of separation they both pretend they didn't feel with every fibre of their existences because, see, every criminal has a weakness.

And the reality is that they're each other's.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I always knew it wouldn't be a one-shot. I am actually loving writing these so you can expect some more :-)_

* * *

She watches as he cowers, sinking to the floor with his shaking hands held in the air in a useless surrender. The tip of her sword presses just that little bit more into his neck and the _poor, helpless, stowaway _chokes out a terrified sob.

Emma simply rolls her eyes. Weak, little thing – can't be older than fifteen. He really did seek refuge on the _wrong ship. _She slides her sword up, lifting his chin in the process and she relishes in the way he shivers – feeling so _powerful. _

It's a feeling she's craved her whole life – a cast away orphan, no control over her fate, her ending, well _not anymore _– and her deep-red lipstick coated lips curve into a grin.

It morphs into a sigh – and an eyeroll – when he whimpers again and she drops her sword because maybe – the little kid reminds her of herself. A long gone version of herself, mind. She looks to Wood – her first mate. "Make use of him, would you."

Wood – sharp pirate with mousy brown hair and a strong build – yanks the kid by his arm, who murmurs frantic _thankyous _for his life as he is carted away.

She re-sheaths her sword, the sound masking the quiet thud of foreign – well, not completely – boots on the deck of her ship and she jumps when two strong arms curl around her waist and a strong body presses against her back and _god _where did he even _come _from because she hasn't seen his ship or heard from him at all in over a week, not that she's been counting –

"Never knew you had such a soft side." Killian murmurs into her ear without so much as a _hello – _not that she's complaining – placing a kiss on the back of her neck and in front of the whole of her crew, no less.

"I _don't." _She says as his fingers play with the rounded buttons of her waistcoat.

"Oh yeah?" He says, dropping kisses to the side of her neck and her jawline and she's damned if she doesn't tilt her chin, inviting him. "Then why spare the kid?"

It's then that she decides to disentangle herself from his grip. "Why spill useful blood?" She says by way of an answer as she moves up to the helm, barking some orders at her crew as she does so.

Killian shrugs, leaning against the wooded posts that surround the helm as she steers her ship with a practiced skill. "Assert order over your crew. Add even morefear to that rather _infamous _name you have for yourself."

"I think you'll find I have _plenty _order over my crew." She drawls, looking over to where they scurry to obey her orders like clockwork in the way they raise sails and prepare canons. He nods, small smile playing on his lips as he pulls his flask from his belt, taking a swig before offering it to her.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" She asks before bringing the flask to her lips.

He smiles, pushing of the back of the railing and sauntering over to where she stands, his lack of awareness for the personal space of others no different from when they'd first crossed paths – and swords. "So my visits are a _pleasure _now, are they, Swan?" He murmurs huskily into her ear.

Her lips curve into a smile and she turns her body to face him. She runs her hand up his leather waistcoat, toying briefly with the intricate buckles before gripping onto the V – feeling his blue _blue _eyes follow her every movement – she tugs him forward slightly so their hips are aligned, leaning in, lips ghosting over his –

"_Captain _Swan." She whispers the correction onto his lips before releasing him, watching with a satisfied smirk as he has to put out a down a firm foot to stop himself from stumbling.

She returns to the helm, steering her ship gently to the side, but watches from the corner of her eye as his scowl turns into a grin and then he's _there – _grabbing roughly onto her hips and spinning her round so she's pinned up against it.

He steps forward, planting his legs on either side of hers, his fingers curling around the wood either side of her. He inclines his head, nudging his nose with hers. "One day you're going to pay for being such a bloody _tease." _He warns her, still not actually _kissing _her, instead choosing to nip playfully at her bottom lip with his teeth.

"Shut up and kiss me, Jones." She orders and _god _he obeys, crushing his lips into hers, grazing her bottom lip with his teeth before drawing away.

"_Captain _Jo –" She doesn't let him finish – she doesn't deny hypocrisy – instead simply tugs his lips back onto hers and it's the middle of the day, her crew are working themselves to the bone, and she's making out with a pirate from another ship.

Except that he's becoming _more _– with each random visit, each passionate encounter, each lingering gaze and she's starting to feel his absence more and more –

"Where's the Jolly?" She asks onto his lips.

"Smee." Is his hasty response before he begins dropping his down her neck and to her collarbone and _god – _

She reaches behind her, pulling his hands away from the helm and entwining them with hers. "So you can be spared?"

"_Fuck _yes." He says and it's all she needs, tugging him down from the helm and in the direction of the captain's quarters.

She barks one last order – "Wood, watch the helm." – before his lips are on hers again and everything else – soft sides and worries and denial because their dalliance is foolish, _foolish – _just slips away.

Perhaps they can be spared just a little longer.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Have another one._

* * *

Low voices – and the occasional alcohol induced hearty laugh or chuckle – fill the tavern as Killian enters with his crew in tow. He scans the room for an empty table – sighting one near the back – but not before his eyes land on a blonde head by the bar and his mouth curves into a grin.

"Look, lads." He says, looking to his crew before turning back to the familiar form. "We've got us a Swan." He motions for them to take the table at the before making towards the bar. It's only when he gets closer that he notices the second presence at that section of the bar, a stocky and chestnut haired guy sitting on the stool next to _hers. _

He narrows his eyes, not needing to hear their voices over the raucous of the tavern to know that he is _quite clearly _trying to _flirt_ with her, leaning in close and placing a daring hand on her thigh.

Killian's fists clench.

He moves round, watching her as he does so and it's to his immediate pleasure that he notices she hardly looks pleased by this guy's – whoever the bloody hell he is – presence, a bored eyebrow raised in a way and he can tell that in her head she's thinking _do you not know who I am _because few would have the _daring _to attempt flirtation with _her_, not in these parts. He also notes with a quiet smile that her thumb is brushing the hilt of her sword and _smart lass _swims into his head.

He raises his chin and smirks as he comes up behind them. Hardly going to let some _stranger _stand between him and his Swan, _that's _for sure. He is a pirate – a gradually softening one (_all _her fault) – but a pirate nevertheless.

"Alright there, Swan?" He says quietly as he comes up beside her and she turns – dark lipstick and braided hair and surprised jade eyes – and when her eyes fall on him, and then flicker to whatever his name is, there's a spark of mischief in her eyes. Green, _green _eyes.

"Killian." She says, running her tongue along her top set of teeth. "What are you doing here?" It's then that the man decides to lean forward slightly, yellow teeth curling into a subtle snarl, grey eyes narrowing.

"Could ask you the same question, love." He takes a step forward. "That is – if I wasn't so _delighted _by this happenstance."

"Oi." The man says – a rather annoying voice, he might add – looking full on _pissed _by now. "Sod off – I was here first."

Emma scoffs at that, choosing to raise her tankard to her lips, raising her eyebrows at Killian as she does so.

He leans his elbow on the bar, arching his neck to he can look his _competition_ in the eye. "I think you'll find, _mate," _He bites out. "That she's a _woman, _not a queue for _ale_, and so 'I was here first' _hardly _applies." This only causes yellow-teeth's eyes to narrow further and for his snarl to grow. "Why don't we let _her _decide who she'd rather spend her evening with."

He raises a hand to Emma's shoulder, brushing her coat lightly with his thumb. He looks down to her as she puts back her now empty tankard. "How 'bout it, Swan?"

To his surprise – well, not _complete _surprise, he should have known it wouldn't be that easy, not when she was so goddam _vexing _– she simply shrugs, twirling her braid around in her fingers in mock school-girl innocence.

"I don't know." She replies but her eyes are glinting with mischief and they flicker down to his sword. "Perhaps you should _duel _for me."

Fear flickers in the man's eyes – bloody _coward – _but when Killian raises a challenging eyebrow to him it evaporates and he stands, hand resting on his sword from where it hangs from his belt. "No problem." He growls, heading to the door with an emphasised lack of nervousness.

Killian turns to Emma as they follow the man out of the back door that leans onto the worn patio. "You're gonna pay for this, love." He says but she only grins.

"Not before I enjoy it, _love." _She says, her _innocent _façade returning as she leans back against the wall of the tavern whilst they both unsheathe their swords.

Killian doesn't hold back – too bloody impatient for that – simply has at his opponent with a practiced skill and speed, swords clashing and _clearly _this guy is out of his league – more panic lacing his features with each narrowly avoided blow of the pirate's sword.

He pushes him back, twisting and turning and spinning and ducking, until the man – vile, disgusting, _weak _man, going after Swan, _his _Swan – is backed up against the wall opposite to the tavern and Killian grins a pirate's grin as he runs his sword up his body and up the side of his neck to scrape the scruff that lines his jaw.

He presses to the point a thin line of blood appears and the man visibly _wimpers _and Killian smirks with satisfaction before lowering his sword, re-sheathing it and spinning back round.

She's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, subtle smile on her face and she wiggles her eyebrows as he approaches. He moves in, trapping her between his legs. He noses her jaw, nuzzling the side of her face and she chuckles. "Not even a _drink, _captain?"

He growls, low and possessive, pressing their foreheads together. "I just did a bloody swordfight for you, darling. We are _much _past drinks."

Her hands run up his vest, tugging him closer and he runs his up her waist before settling them at her hips and claiming her lips in his own because she's _his – his _and no one else's, just like he is hers.

She pulls away briefly. "I just wanted to know if you'd actually _do _it." She says and he hums, pressing his lips to hers again two – three, four – more times.

"Of course I would, lass." He says in a low and husky tone. "You're _my _pirate." He takes both her hands in his, dragging him in the direction of his ship whilst his lips continue to persevere down her neck and along her jaw.

He stops briefly, rubbing his nose against hers. "And don't you _bloody_ forget it_." _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Finally had a bit of spare writing time and my muse decided it would be spent doing another on of these! This got kinda feelsy. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Being out late – stars visible, streets desolate, the silence only perturbed by the occasional shuffle of boots or shutting of a door – is something Killian Jones has always enjoyed; something about the dark of the waters as they lap against the sides of the docks, ships bobbing sleepily, creaking of the wood just about audible over the bemused chuckle that sounds from his right.

A laugh that goes straight to his heart and in fact – Killian muses, eyes on her as they walk – if there's one thing that makes good-for-nothing strolls in the middle of the night any more enjoyable than he already finds them it's having _her _beside him.

_Emma Swan_ – in all her blonde-haired, red-lipped, foul-mouthed, leather adorned glory.

The waterfront is empty as they walk down it, Emma turning on her heel – crimson coat swinging, tight breeches _tight _– and going stand in front of him, walking backwards and raising the bottle of rum to her lips again.

"Truth." She says, passing the bottle back. He ponders it, keeping up the albeit slightly juvenile but nevertheless enjoyable game they've been playing ever since they began this walk.

(How that's come to pass is another thing entirely – the always _very_ welcome (as much as she might hasten to deny it) coincidence of docking in the same port, a late night at the tavern and then the rum induced idea for a stroll that just sort of _happened – )_

The questions – whilst generally less occurring than the _dare _option – have had varying degrees of depth and he wonders if he's pushing it with this question, but it's past his lips before he can really consider it –

"Do you ever feel guilty?"

She opens her mouth – something like surprise lacing her expression – before that tell-tale sarcasm takes over. "Well, well, Captain Jones – we _are _getting philosophical, aren't we now?"

"I'm serious, Swan." He says as she turns back around, falling in step with him again.

Her hands slip into the pockets of her coat as she sighs, stretching her neck to look at the stars that shine above them, pinpricks of twinkling light against an expanse of black. "Guilt about what, exactly?"

He shrugs, idle musings slipping off his tongue in a way that they never seem to with anyone else – just her (there are a lot of things that have become _just her – _but he doesn't really dwell on it). "This life. Stealing, killing – whatever."

There's a moment of pause, something quietly completive about the way she keeps her head tilted back. "Sometimes." She says, restriction toying with her tone and he supposes that she mustn't really like _this – _them talking, _properly _talking as a pose to just flirting and doing _other things _– that it must break all those careful rules he knows she's lain down.

She drops her head. "But then I remember that the shitheads who abandoned me probably didn't." She doesn't meet his searching gaze, keeps her eyes trained forward, green orbs hard. "If killing and stealing means I don't get fucked over then so be it. That's life."

He nods – not that she can see, eyes still stubbornly avoiding his, although again, he supposes it's hard. It's not like they discuss their pasts _often, _just those occasional mentions wrapped up in sheets and quilts, limbs tangled, minds hazy.

She finally lets out, turning to him. "Do you?"

"The same." He says after a pause. "The king killed my brother… " He trails off.

"…and at least amongst thieves there is honor." She finishes his sentence, the very fact that she _can _making his lips quirk up in a smile and some of the slowly gathered tension dissipates.

Noise beings to sound up ahead, the tranquil of the empty waterfront slipping away as lights from whatever taverns and shops are still open shine blearily. "Truth or dare." She challenges.

"Dare."

She looks around, searching for something or anything to get him to do. "I dare you to…"

And then her eyes fall upon something, mouth curving into a slow grin and her eyes dance with mischief because as well as carefully guarded as she _is _she's also a bloody minx –

His eyes follow hers to the line of shops and he barely has a chance to register what she's looking at before the words are passed her lips.

"…get a tattoo."

The stand is small, various designs pinned up against the wooden framework, heavily built man with several piercings sitting behind it.

"A tattoo?" he repeats as they come to a still in front of it, arched eyebrow only making her grin wider as she takes a sauntering step towards him. "You want me to get a tattoo?"

"What's wrong, Captain?" She says, running her hands up the lapels of his jacket, their proximity making the air between them hum and he smirks, never having been one to back down from a challenge. Her voice is low and taunting, just a teasing whisper against his lips. "Scared?"

"Absolutely _not._" He says, drawing out each word. "What you want me to get done?"

She runs her tongue along her bottom lip – _god _– and then uses her grip on his coat to tug him closer.

"_My name_." she whispers, the intimacy of the request making his heart stutter slightly and _Christ _she's standing close –

"_Where?_" He near _growls _and it only makes her grin wider.

"Right…_here_" she slips her hand into the v of his shirt, sliding it up to the left until it covers the space right above where his heart beats in his chest.

She lifts her head back up, eyes meeting his and she's so close that he can see the little flecks of brown in her eyes, can see the shadow of her eyeliner and she's _enticing _and _beautiful – _

He pushes forward, pressing his lips soundly to hers – her kiss making him _buzz, _mind already slightly hazy from the rum as she smiles into it – before he pulls back, just a murmured _I accept _into the space between them before he draws away completely, her hand slipping from his chest as he turns round, approaching the stall.

"How can I help?" The man offers, sitting forward in his chair. Killian flicks through the tired pages of the book that sits on the counter, moving past the various images and onto the styles of lettering. After a few moments of consideration he picks one, tapping it with his finger.

"There." He says. "That – I want _Emma _tattooed _here." _He pulls away his shirt, showing the space and the man makes a compliant hand gesture, nodding to the stool beside him, going under the counter to prepare his needle as Killian takes his seat, dropping his coat and pulling the shirt completely away.

His eyes meet Emma's from where she leans against the stall and she wiggles her eyebrows, eyes shining and he wonders – pushing away thoughts of _weak _and _pathetic _that drift unbidden in his mind – if there was anything he _wouldn't _do to see her like that –

The needle is sharp and burns against his skin, but he ignores it, titling his head as he watches her name – a name he's whispered countless times, murmured it into her skin as his hands trail up her sides, a name that comes to him in the dark of the night, times when he's trying to do anything _but _think about her (a pointless feat) – become inked into his skin, needle following the delicate and intricate pattern of the stencil.

It takes time – his eyes finding Emma's throughout, faint smile etched upon her lips – and when it's done – still fresh and stinging and _did he really just get Emma Swan's name tattooed onto his chest _(of _course _he did) – he looks down, admiring it for a few moments before he slips his shirt back on, fabric covering only part of the fresh tattoo. He pushes himself up, pulling the coins from his pocket as the man specifies and dropping them into his hand.

When he looks to Emma she's pushing off the counter, shaking her head, smile curling her lips and she lets out a short laugh. "I cannot believe you just did that."

He grins, following her as she turns back in the way they came.

"Mm…sure you can." He murmurs, coming up from behind her, hands sliding to anchor on her hips as he speaks, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I think you'll find…" He says, kissing a path up the gentle slope of her neck "…that there's very little I wouldn't do for you, Swan."

He doesn't know it it's the rum that makes him say it – maybe it's just the _truth _– but he still does, Emma humming in response and she turns round, arms looping around his neck as she pulls his lips to hers, teeth grazing, eyes slipping shut as they continue to move down the barely lit road.

He sees his ship somewhere ahead, the words i_n the mood for a nightcap? _Barely past his lips before they stumble aboard, moving in sync past the empty deck of the Jolly Roger and down to the captain's quarters.

After that, he only sees her – blonde hair falling around her head, her eyes slipped shut, lips soft and coaxing as they fall against the soft of the bed.

(What he _doesn't_ see is two days later – his ship having left port, her mind tangled with memories of truth or dare, inked promises – when she returns to the battered tattoo parlour. He doesn't see her sit down, intention conflicting with all her morals and yet still blaringly clear, as she gets the name _Killian _tattooed in small lettering on her left forearm.)

(And what he doesn't realise is that when he's standing on his ship, fingers brushing over the raised skin, she's doing almost exactly the same thing.)

* * *

_A/N: I've never got a tattoo so sorry if that was super inaccurate. Review?_


End file.
